Finally, an update!

I am so sorry it has taken me so long to post this; I know it has been forever since I updates this story. I have been really bust lately, and I know a lot of you have been too. Hopefully this break has also given you some time to get settled down and caught up. :) Thank you all so much for understanding, and I hope I have not lost anyone's interest with this story!

Also, for those who are interested, I posted a new fanfiction last night, my first modern AU ever! It is called "Like A Candle in the Dark," and the main characters are Enjolras, Grantaire, and Eponine. It will be a short story, probably only about five chapters, and "Between Love and Loss" will still be my priority, I promise. So no worries ;) Of course, no one is obliged to read it, but if you want to, I would really appreciate it!

This chapter is kind of slow, I think, but I can assure you it is going to pick up after this. This is one of those chapters that is necessary to bring everything together before I can more forward. Next chapter I will be moving forward.

On that note, I hope you enjoy, and please let me know what you think!

Chapter XXV

Yet to Come

The night prior, Combeferre had told Enjolras that he did not want him to get out of bed at all today. Enjolras, as exhausted, as weak, as sick, and as injured as he was, did not argue. He did not even attempt to get up. In the next four hours, he got out of bed only once. Combeferre was on one side of him, Éponine was on the other, and Courfeyrac held the door for them as they helped him limp down the hall to the bathroom. His arms were over their shoulders, and their arms supported and held onto him. They could feel his taught muscles flinching and stiffening at each small movement.

Enjolras cringed. He drew air abruptly into his lungs and held it in with his abdominals. He held his breath, telling himself—he did not know if this claim held any real merit—that it made the pain easier to get through. It was a great effort and an exhausting battle, but he tried not to grunt or moan as he moved. He tried to conceal his agony. He tried not to limp. He tried not to put all of his weight on Combeferre and Éponine, thus let them practically carry him through the house. He tried to walk for himself. It was a simple task, and it was impossible.

His entire body ached. Besides the excruciating pain of his injuries—his back, which was mutilated and mangled to the point that there was hardly any skin left upon it, only bloody wounds and raw muscles; his sides, which had some wounds and lash marks upon them as well; his broken wrist, his entire arm for that matter, which was throbbing as if being beaten continuously with an iron club; his injured shoulder, which was too stiff and painful to move; his broken ribs, which hurt to breath; his chest and his lungs, in which infection, mucus, and blood were brewing like the smoking and hissing concoction of a witch, a worshiper of black magic; his sore and inflamed throat; his mouth, where there was a deep hole in his gum, severed tissue in his mouth, broken roots extending into his jaw, and it was agony just to speak; many of his teeth, which were infected or broken; his entire mouth; his aching and spinning head, pulsing and pounding with his heartbeat; and his face: an open wound, hardening and blistering, a burn that had eaten up the skin, boils in his flesh, uncovered nerves, and numbness in the places where the nerves were destroyed; the wounds on his arms, his legs, his thighs, everything—his body had become so stiff it was as if his flesh was slowly becoming stone. Trying to move his limbs was like trying to bend a wooden leg, or an arm that was no longer attached to the body. He could feel his body fighting back, resisting, as his mind commanded it to move. An invisible force pressed down on him and attempted to immobilize him. Thus he was battling against himself, his own body. Just moving was a battle. A war.

Enjolras was astonished at how difficult it was merely to get up and walk. It was physically unfeasible to move, and when he did manage to move his throbbing body it was tortuous. He could not understand it. As each day passed, he expected to be feeling better, not worse. It seemed evident, however, that he was wrong. Yesterday he walked ceaselessly and restlessly through Paris in the rain and in the cold for hours, and although it was painful it was manageable. Now, he could barely get out of bed and walk to the bathroom. He could not do it without his family helping him, practically carrying him. He could not even get out of bed and walk to the toilet by himself.

When, after a long and painful walk that should not have took even a minute but took several, they finally arrived at the bathroom. Éponine and Combeferre reluctantly let go of Enjolras—as it was evident that he could hardly walk, and they feared he would fall if they released their hold on him—and he went in and closed the door between them. They were restless as they waited in the hallway, pacing, staring vainly at that closed piece of wood and waiting for it to open. Sometimes, through the door, they could hear Enjolras struggling to stifle grunts of pain. Éponine knocked and, trying not to let him hear how scared she was, asked him if he was alright. Of course, he said yes. It meant nothing.

…

Courfeyrac stood in the entrance of the bedroom waiting for them to return, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, looking down the empty hallway, waiting. Waiting to see them, waiting to see Enjolras. Waiting was torment. Torture. In attempt only to get his mind off of his worries and off of Enjolras's pain, which was evident and clear, he raised his eyes and looked across the room to where Grantaire was sitting by himself.

He had not said much, perhaps not anything, since his arrival, his outburst, and then his silence. After Enjolras whispered those soft words, "Grantaire, please," Grantaire found a chair and sat in the far corner of the room, distancing himself from the rest of them. He did not speak. He remained in the corner, alone, silent, a hidden spectator, like a ghost, invisible and unnoticed by mortals, watching the living but only watching, unwilling and unable to join them.

He mostly just sat there, bent over in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his bottle in his hands. He watched soundlessly and sadly, a grave and sorrowful expression on his grieved face, as Combeferre cared for Enjolras, as Courfeyrac brought him water and the medicine Combeferre instructed, as Éponine held his hand… Enjolras had to reach his left hand over his body to hold hers, because his right wrist was broken so badly. Sometimes, when it became too painful to watch any longer, Grantaire looked away, and he stared at the glass in his hands. He played with it, in a vain attempt to busy himself with something other than his guilt. He traced one finger in an endless circle over the mouth of the bottle, yearning to raise it to his lips and drown himself in its contents but trying to restrain himself. Sometimes, when it became too much, when he could feel his head throbbing and his muscles aching, hear his mind screaming, see his hands trembling, he had no choice, and he took a sip.

Grantaire was staring at his bottle again now, as if lost in thought. Yet, Courfeyrac knew that these thoughts had little to do with the liquor in his hands and everything to do with the same horrors that tormented them all. "So," Courfeyrac said after a moment. He attempted to make his voice light, but it emitted flat and halfhearted, sad. Grantaire glanced up at him without a word, and Courfeyrac when on. "How long have you known that Enjolras and Éponine got married?"

Grantaire seemed surprised by this question. As if this was news to him, he lifted his head and his eyes were fixed steadily on Courfeyrac. "I didn't," he said. "Not until this morning. So…" he hesitated, as if unsure if he should go on, before he sighed and asked, "So they are really married then?"

Now it was Courfeyrac's turn to be surprised. "Of course they are," he answered at once, frowning at the comment. As if it was proof of their marriage, as if this was one of his court cases and this was his evidence, he said, "They have a child together."

"I know that." Grantaire stopped speaking abruptly, and for a moment he seemed as if he regretted these last few words. He fell silent and looked away, returning his attention to his bottle.

Courfeyrac was silent. He stared at Grantaire as the meaning of these words became clear to him, and he understood. As it made sense to him, a grim shadow befell his heart. Grantaire knew that Enjolras and Éponine had a son, but he did not know that they were married. He thought the child was illegitimate. Perhaps this was why he had never told any of them about Éponine… or about Andras. Yet it did not matter. Grantaire was wrong. Enjolras and Éponine were married, and their child had not been conceived out of wedlock. They never told anyone about the wedding, but clearly they had gotten married. Enjolras said so.

In a courthouse, such evidence would not be considered evidence at all. A man' word, especially if he is a man guilty of the crime, a convict, is worthless under the law. Who is to say his word is not a lie? It is not one's word, but the facts, the evidence, that is held worthy of consideration. So what was the evidence? A lawyer now, Courfeyrac could not stop his mind from thinking these things. It was, he could not deny, odd that Enjolras never even told them about Éponine, and that he never told them that he had gotten married, and that his best friends never knew anything about any of this. It was odd that Enjolras, even when they set out to find Éponine, did not tell them that she was his wife until after they found out that he had a child with her. It was all very strange. It almost seemed that… Courfeyrac hated to admit it, but it almost seemed that Grantaire was correct in his suspicions: Enjolras and Éponine had never married, he had lain with her unwed, she became pregnant, Enjolras did not know, when he found her and discovered that they had a child he said they were married, he fabricated an excuse to cover his sins.

Stop this! This was foolish! This was wrong. Courfeyrac scolded himself as guilt and remorse closed over him. He knew he should not be thinking this. He had no reason, no right, to think such things. Firstly, it was none of his business. Secondly and more importantly, he had no reason to doubt Enjolras's word, no right to accuse him of such sins, which he had no reason to accuse him of. (Aside from the fact that this accusation would be extremely hypocritical and duplicitous, because in his youth Courfeyrac, himself, had spent nights of lust and selfishness with various women, most of whom he did not really love. If Enjolras and Éponine were in truth not married, the only difference between Enjolras's sins and Courfeyrac's would be that Enjolras had gotten very unlucky and Éponine had conceived his son. At least Enjolras really loved her.)

Yet, Courfeyrac had no right to think this. Enjolras said he and Éponine were married, and they had no reason to doubt that. Enjolras was an honest man, a good and holy man. Courfeyrac trusted him. Even if the evidence said otherwise, Courfeyrac believed him. He had no reason to believe anything else. He dismissed these gross judgments from his mind, and with repentance in his heart he thought of them no more.

Enjolras was a good man. He was a great man. He was the greatest man Courfeyrac had ever known.

In fact, Courfeyrac was uncertain there was a single shadow of darkness in his pure soul…

…

It was a long time before the bathroom door finally opened, and Enjolras appeared before Éponine and Combeferre. Immediately, they hurried to his sides and returned their arms around him. He seemed to have even greater trouble walking back to room than he did leaving it. It was as if the pain had gotten worse.

Courfeyrac was waiting eagerly for them, and as soon as he saw them in the hallway making their way toward the bedroom, he held the door open for them, rushed before them, got Enjolras's bed ready, helped them lay him down, and gently pulled the blanket up over his trembling body. They could visibly see him shaking, and it scared them. They did not know if he was trembling because he was cold, or because he had a fever, or because he was in so much pain. It was probably because of all three.

As they laid another blanket over him, Enjolras sighed and closed his eyes. He let his body relax onto the mattress. He laid down the fight. With his eyes closed, he found Éponine's hand with his own, his only usable hand, and he clung to it as if clinging to life, itself.

He did not get up again. He was in too much pain. Every movement, every shift of his muscles, was agony. Every breath was torturous.

Combeferre gave him a drink of water and a pill of morphine, both of which were hard to get down. Then, Combeferre sadly stood before the bed and watched his friend suffer. He knew what he had to do, but he was unable to bring himself to do it. He could not put him in any more pain. He let Enjolras rest for about twenty minutes longer, before he sighed and said grimly, "Enjolras, I should change your bandages now. I need to clean your wounds as well. We really should be cleaning them twice a day."

Enjolras opened his eyes, and Combeferre saw fear in them. He spoke softly, "Not… not yet, Combeferre." He tried not to seem afraid. "Can… can we not wait?" Enjolras quickly glanced at Éponine, and Combeferre immediately knew why he wanted to wait. He did not want Éponine to see his wounds. He did not want her to know the truth. He did not want her to know how badly they tortured him. He did not want her to see what had become of him. Sighing, Combeferre agreed, and they waited.

Not long after this, Élisabeth knocked softly on the door. When they told her to come in, she had a small bowl of soup in one hand and a sleeping baby in her other arm. Not far behind her, a little girl was busy saying something, youthful chatter which no adult could understand, to someone out of sight. Enjolras raised his head off of his pillow and tried to see into the hallway. He caught a glimpse of a small figure, blonde hair, and a precious face. His son, Andras. His heart ached. He wanted to see him. To hold him. He wanted to hold his son. But he couldn't.

Élisabeth brought Enjolras a small portion of soup, which she made thinking it might be something he could actually eat without it causing too much pain to his mouth, jaws, or throat. He thanked her quietly, and she accepted his gratitude as if it was unnecessary. She was joyed just to see that Enjolras, who she knew was as good as her husband's brother, well enough to attempt eating.

She returned a minute later, the children trailing behind her, with food for everyone else. None of them had much of an appetite, but they made themselves to eat anyway—it had been over a day since any of these people ate, two days for some of them, longer for Enjolras and Grantaire, who lived mostly off of alcohol nowadays. As she handed him a bowl of soup, Grantaire forced a smile to appear on his face and thanked her uncomfortably.

His relationship with this woman had always been uncomfortable. When Combeferre first introduced him to his wife, he said, "This is my friend, Grantaire," but, in the three years following, Grantaire had not acted much like a friend to Combeferre. Whenever they were together, which was not very often, usually only when Combeferre and Joly forced him to come over so they could check up on his injuries, their confrontation usually ended with Combeferre raising his voice and scolding Grantaire. He told him that he could not just give up, that he could not stop living, that he had to at least make an effort, that he had to try, that he had to be strong and keeping going, that he had to move on and keep living. Then Grantaire got angry, cussed out Combeferre, and stormed off, slamming the door behind him. He saw Élisabeth little, and whenever he did see her, it was usually for only a few brief seconds as he passed through a room and walked out of the house. Combeferre would then sigh and tell his wife that Grantaire had never been able to adjust after the war, he had never recovered, he had never been able to move on, he had changed. So, when he and Combeferre were not fighting, it was uncomfortable when Grantaire saw Élisabeth. She probably only knew him as the insane drunkard who was traumatized by a battle and who always yelled at her husband, who was doing everything he could to help him, who was kind to him even when Grantaire showed him no kindness in return.

However, when Grantaire said thank you, Élisabeth returned a nod and a smile and acted as if their tumultuous past never happened. She was a good woman, Élisabeth. Combeferre was lucky that he found her. Most women, at least most of the women that Grantaire encountered in his life, were not like that. They were not so understanding, so forgiving. Had they been, then perhaps Grantaire would have really fallen in love. Perhaps he would have been married by now. Yet, he would never get married. Not now. It was much too late for that.

After Élisabeth left, taking the children away with her, and Andras was gone from his sight, Enjolras sighed and tried to eat. It was difficult, but with the help of Éponine, who was literally spoon-feeding him at times, he managed to get most of it down. It tasted good—Élisabeth was an excellent cook, something Courfeyrac and Joly praised her for whenever they stayed with the Combeferres for dinner—and the warmth of the broth was soothing against his sore throat, but as his meal settled in his stomach, Enjolras felt sick.

For the next hour, Enjolras struggled to keep the soup down. He lay in bed, feeling even more miserable than before, as Éponine gently stroked his arm. He closed his eyes and tried to rest. Now there was also terrible pain in his stomach, which seemed to be twisting and thrashing around inside of him. He knew it was only a matter of time. He kept the metal pot, which he had thrown up into several times in only the past day, in bed beside him, easily within his reach, and he tried not to vomit. He was doing well for the first hour, but after Combeferre gave him the next dose of medication, it became too much. Within minutes, Enjolras threw up, and he lost everything he ingested in the last several hours. (In the following days, this would become an apparent problem that frightened them all, as Enjolras, who was already in the early to middle stages of starvation, could not keep down any food that he swallowed. No matter what he ate or how small an amount, before the night was over, it came back up.)

When he stopped heaving and things calmed once more, he rested for perhaps another hour. Then, when the first opportunity presented itself—Éponine reluctantly left Enjolras to give Andras, who was still dirty and poorly clothed, a bath—Combeferre removed Enjolras bandages, cleaned his wounds, and wrapped them up in clean dressings. Courfeyrac helped him, obeying every command Combeferre gave him, doing exactly what he said, and, when called upon, even Grantaire went to Enjolras's side and helped the other's tend to his wounds. He took care not to look Enjolras in the eye.

Enjolras trembled as the cold air, which in truth was not very cold but warm, heated by a burning furnace, hit his bare skin. He felt as if the chill slammed into his wounded body, and his injuries throbbed. He winced. He tried not to cry out as they cleaned his wounds, rubbed medication all over him, and heavily wrapped him up—almost his entire body—in clean bandages.

The room was silent as they worked. So every sound Enjolras made, every quiet grunt, or gasp, or whimper, could be heard. Every time they heard him make a noise of pain, Enjolras's friends cringed with him. They all longed with desperation, as if they themselves were enduring torture, for this to end.

At last, when he saw a chance—Combeferre was standing behind Enjolras and Courfeyrac in front of him, and together they were wrapping bandages around his torso, starting with his shoulders and making their way down, past his chest, over his broken ribs, covering his bloody back, wrapping him to his waist—Courfeyrac finally attempted a lighthearted air. Still, they could hear the sorrow weighing down his spirit.

"Look at you, Enjolras," he said with a grin, which he forced and struggled to hold on his face, as a man struggles to hold a weight that is much too heavy for his feeble arms. "They used to call you Apollo, but now they will have to call you Hercules. Look at these muscles!" Courfeyrac teasingly patted Enjolras's uncovered belly, his tight abdominals, with his hand. There was not a wound in the place Courfeyrac touched, but, all the same, pain exploded and crashed through Enjolras's aching body. He felt as if it was an iron club slamming into his gut and knocking the wind out of his infected and bloody lungs… it did not feel at all like the gentle tap Courfeyrac gave him.

He flinched. They could visibly see his muscles, which they were all looking at thanks to Courfeyrac, flexing. They saw his body tense as he tried to endure the agony silently. He grunted softly as his breath was lodged in his throat, and pain tried to force out the air in a scream. He did not scream. He refused to scream. He would not be so weak in front of his friends. He tried to be strong for their sakes—and for the sake of whatever tattered thread of pride he still clung to; he clung to it desperately, as if it was the red flag of the failed Revolution and the only dying way to honor his dead friends.

He tried not to show pain, but it was useless. They saw. They knew.

They finished enveloping his body in bandages in silence, and they laid him down once more. Combeferre gave him another pill of morphine, and they told him to rest. That was all they could do. Less than a quarter of an hour later, to everyone's great relief, Éponine returned. Enjolras, who was minutes away from sleep or unconsciousness, lifted his head and opened his eyes. Even as miserable as he felt, a weak smile appeared on his lips when he saw Éponine.

"Where's Andras?" Enjolras asked as she entered the room and went immediately to his side, entwining her fingers with his. When he spoke, he mumbled. His voice was muddled and slurred, almost as if he was drunk. This was not a result of drunkenness or drugs, however. It was the product of pain, agony, sickness, fever, and delirium.

"Élisabeth is with him," Éponine assured him. She leaned over him and placed a soft kiss on his forehead, kissing him the way a mother would kiss her child goodnight.

Enjolras's eyelids felt as if they weighed ten pounds, and even as he fought vainly to hold them open, gravity defeated him, and they kept sliding shut. Giving up, too exhausted to continue in this battle, he let them close, and he muttered into the darkness, "I want to see him."

However, before Enjolras got a chance to see his son, before he got even a chance to hear Éponine's reply, he was unconscious.

…

It had taken a lot longer than he had hoped. Caring for his patients as well as Combeferre's proved to be a very demanding and difficult task. It was even more difficult when he mind was ceaselessly elsewhere. He was ceaselessly thinking about, and worrying about, and praying about Enjolras. It was past ten o'clock at night when Joly, exhausted, stressed, and overwhelmingly anxious, finally left the hospital.

He went straight to Combeferre's house, let himself in with a key, and rushed down the hall and to the bedroom where he had last seen Enjolras. However, the door was closed. He found Courfeyrac, who looked as if he had been pacing restlessly about the hall, standing just outside the closed entrance.

"How is he?" Joly asked urgently as he hurried to Courfeyrac's side.

"He's asleep," Courfeyrac said hollowly. Emptiness filled his voice, his eyes, and his cold heart. The events of the proceeding days had finally succeeding in draining every drop of strength and will, of life, from his feeble body.

"How has he been today?"

Courfeyrac hesitated. He did not know how to answer that question. The answer he had to give was no the answer he or Joly wanted to hear. He closed his eyes and, groaning under his breath, answered miserably, "I don't know."

At this, a blade of fear hit Joly. He knew it had not gone well. He cried out, "What is that supposed to mean? Is he better or—"

"He seems a little bit better… I suppose."

Joly was not convinced. He was not reassured. "You suppose?"

With difficultly, Courfeyrac produced the weak reply, "He ate soup today."

"That is good," Joly said, his voice brightening a degree. He was relieved to hear at least a hint of good news. A shadow of encouragement came into his gloomy spirit.

"…but then he threw up."

"Oh."

With a tone and a heart like coarse stone, Courfeyrac bluntly said also, "He could not walk very well."

Joly met his eyes with a confused and concerned expression. "He could not walk well? He walked all over Paris yesterday and did not seem to have great difficulty."

"He has gotten worse. He could not even get out of bed unless Combeferre and Éponine helped him."

"God."

"He has a bad fever now."

Joly's heart plummeted even further into his stomach. He cringed. "How bad?"

"Not good. Combeferre thinks it is from the infection… or pneumonia, he said."

"Pneumonia?" Joly repeated in horror. "He definitely has pneumonia, then?"

"Combeferre thinks he has had it for a long time now. At least a month he guesses."

Joly could feel his throat tightening, making it difficult to breathe. With much effort, he swallowed his emotions down his throat and into his chest, where they crushed his lungs like the infection in Enjolras's lungs. "Where are Combeferre?" he asked finally. His voice wavered like the flapping tongue at the tip of a candle just before the flame is blown out by the harsh wind.

"In there," Courfeyrac answered numbly, gesturing toward the closed door. "With Enjolras. Éponine is with him too. She has Andras with her. Élisabeth is upstairs with the girls."

"And Grantaire?"

"He's asleep in another room." He added grimly and spitefully, "…Or unconscious. Drunk."

Joly dropped his gaze to the floor and sighed heavily. Courfeyrac did the same. For a moment, silence fell between them. Joly was about to tell go into the bedroom to speak with Combeferre, but before he could, Courfeyrac raised his head suddenly and asked urgently and bluntly as if the thought—and a very strange thought it was—had dropped spontaneously on his mind. "Hey, Joly…"

"Yes?" answered Joly, a bit surprise by Courfeyrac's abrupt change in manner.

"Do you remember that man we saw at that pub yesterday? The old one? The one who knew Enjolras's name?"

Joly was taken aback. His jaws closed tightly together, and he stiffened slightly. He shifted uncomfortably. Confused at why and a bit startled that Courfeyrac was bringing this up again, he answered rigidly, "Yes. Why?"

"I have been thinking about that."

"I see. But why?" A bit hopelessly, a bit desperately, he added, "I thought you said it doesn't matter…?"

"He knew Enjolras's name, and we had not told him," Courfeyrac reminded him. It was a detail that Joly did not have to be reminded of. It was something he would have rather forgotten. Yet he could not forget. The thought haunted him and chilled his blood. "The only time we mentioned his name was when we were whispering together, and this man was deaf, so he could not have possibly heard us," Courfeyrac went on.

"Yes, I know," said an exasperated Joly, who was becoming distressed all over again—he was finally starting to let this go, and now Courfeyrac had to bring it up again. Giving up, he shook his head vigorously and said fretfully, "I told you I thought it was strange. It was you who said there was a logical explanation for it."

"There is."

Joly met Courfeyrac's eyes. "Really?" he answered in astonishment. His eyes were wide in shock and his face blank. He had not been expecting to hear this at all, but he was thrilled to. "What is that?" he asked eagerly.

"Remember when we first realized that Enjolras had gone?" Joly nodded. "We started running around the tavern, calling his name, shouting his name. We went into the street, and our voices echoed, because we were screaming so loud. The old man could have heard us then. The entire pub probably heard us."

As Courfeyrac explained this and Joly realized that he might have been right, he sighed in relief. Thank God…

"Yes, you are right!" Joly readily agreed. "I am sure that is it! That must be it!"

"You think so?" asked Courfeyrac. Even though it was him who had come up with this brilliant conclusion, and he seemed to be confident in its correctness, he seemed somehow reluctant. It was as if he needed to hear Joly reassure him. He needed to be convinced. Comforted.

"Certainly," said Joly. "That is the only explanation. You said yourself that there had to be a logical answer, and you were right. I am certain you are right."

Courfeyrac nodded silently. Joly could have sworn he saw him sigh in relief.

As his mind began to ponder and consider, Joly's brow furrowed, and he looked at Courfeyrac seriously. Quietly and carefully, he questioned Courfeyrac, "Why do you ask?"

Courfeyrac barely shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I was just thinking about it is all."

"That is all?" Joly was doubtful.

Without looking at Joly, staring as if in a daze across the room, Courfeyrac shrugged again. He answered calmly, "Of course," but it was clear that his mind was elsewhere.

Joly nodded uncertainly. Reluctantly he turned to go. His hand was on the doorknob. Just when he was about to open the door and enter the bedroom, he heard Courfeyrac mutter in a whisper, as if to himself, as if he had not meant to speak the words aloud, "I had a dream last night."

He did not know why, but Joly froze at once. It was as if the temperature had dropped a hundred degrees in a second, and Joly's body, his flesh, his bones, and his blood, had turned into ice. He felt goose bumps appear all over him.

Very slowly, as if he was too stiff to move, as if he was frozen and immobile, he turned to look at Courfeyrac over his shoulder. Courfeyrac had his back to him. He was like a statue standing there beside him in this forsaken hallway. He was like a cold stone in a graveyard. He was still gazing into oblivion, at something no one else could see. Joly felt very alone. He felt afraid.

Joly parted his lips. When he tried to speak, his voice was a hoarse whisper. "What was it about?"

"Enjolras," a ghostly voice emitted from Courfeyrac's faceless figure.

Joly was afraid to ask this—Why was he afraid? He had no idea. It was foolishness. Childishness. It was only a dream. A nightmare. Children are laughed at by children when they fear bad dreams. Joly did not know why, but he was afraid—but he forced himself to ask, "What happened?"

"I do not know exactly, but I think…"

He paused. Joly held his breath.

"Enjolras almost died. Death came to this house and tried to take Enjolras, but he could not. I don't know what it was, but something stopped him. It was a strange dream. Death was a person in it. It was all very strange. And you know…" He finally turned, and his eyes met Joly's. "It seemed so real. When it first happened, I did not think it was a dream at all."

…

In the dim light of a single candle glowing faintly from the other corner of the room, Éponine sat upright in bed. She leaned against a pillow that was positioned between her back and the wall. Her chest rose and fell slowly with her breath. Her head was turned slightly to one side, like one who has fallen asleep whilst sitting up, but she was not asleep. Her dark eyes were opened. They gazed emptily across the room and stared into the blurriness of her sleep-deprived vision. Her mind was lost in thought, her heart in restless fret, and her soul in ceaseless prayer.

On one her left side, her son—he was clean now and in clean, warm clothing, which was still too big for him, but the clothes were far better than what he had been wearing before—was snuggled against her. Her arm was around his tiny body. She held him closely against her, as if protecting him, as if afraid she would lose him is she let him go. Andras's little arms were wrapped tightly around her thin body. He held onto her as desperately as his fragile arms could cling to her. His head rested on her lower chest. If he was still awake, he could feel her breath and he could hear her heart beating. His eyes were closed.

On the other side of this woman—her body was the barrier between them, dividing them, keeping them apart—was the child's father. Enjolras's head rested on a pillow, which was pushed snugly against Éponine's leg. He laid his head as close to her as was possible. Any closer and his head would have been in her lap. Instead, it was on the pillow, and the left side of his face was turned toward her, resting against her thigh.

With one hand, she absently stroked Enjolras's forehead; she ran her fingers through ghostly locks of gold that were not longer there. She felt the heat—the curse of the devil, who had poisoned her husband in attempt to murder him—radiating from his skin. It taunted her, tormented her. It informed her that a fever was still upon him, and his life was still at stake. She could feel the cold sweat, like splinters of ice when it touched her bare fingertips, breaking out on his forehead. She felt the harsh bristles that covered his skull, the scabbed-over wounds, the lumpy scars, the swollen knots. She was exhausted, but she would be unable to sleep, because Enjolras was still stick, and Enjolras was still hurt. Enjolras was still not so far away from death.

Combeferre sat on the other side of the room in a chair before a nightstand, reading by the light of a dim candle. He must have been exhausted, but he refused to sleep. He would not rest until he knew Enjolras would be alright.

"Mama," a small, innocent and precious voice, spoke beside her.

Éponine looked down and saw Andras's beautiful little face staring at her. His wide blue eyes looked nervously into her eyes of dark brown. She was surprised. She thought he was asleep already. "What, baby?" she parted her lips and answered softly. Her voice was weak and tired. She sounded like a woman who has just been awakened from a deep sleep. Yet, Éponine had hardly slept in three nights—the night before her wedding to Caïn she could not sleep from the distress, and confliction, and torment in her mind, she hardly slept a minute last night because she was so afraid for Enjolras's life, and it did not appear she would rest tonight either.

Andras hugged Éponine tighter, and he moved his eyes. Fearfully, he dared to look around her. He stared at the strange man lying in bed beside his mother. "Mama," he whispered timidly, "who is that?"

Éponine's heart fell. She could feel it breaking, cracking like glass. Her heart was fragile, she realized for the first time. No matter how strong she was physically, mentally, emotionally… No matter how strong she thought herself, how strong she pretended to be… her heart was fragile. Her soul was made of stone. Her heart was made of glass. No. Her heart was made of ice.

It seemed that there were only three people in this world that could light a fire harsh enough to penetrate the solid ice of her heart. Only three people could hurt her this badly. Caïn's fist was nothing. Her father's threats and curses made her laugh. That was not real pain. Yet, three people could hurt her. A long time ago, it was Marius. Then it was Enjolras. Now, she realized, it was her husband and their son. When it was her son, it might have burned her heart the most.

Her first impulse was to be angry. Yet, how could she blame this child? It was not his fault. It was not his fault that he did not know his own father. That was his mother's fault, his stupid mother who let Enjolras take a bullet for her, his stupid mother who let Enjolras suffer four years in a cold prison while they tortured him and she did nothing to help him, his stupid mother who never even told their child that he had a father and that his father had saved both of their lives.

Perhaps, that is what she was most ashamed of. She had not even mentioned Enjolras's name—or the word "father"—to her son until Enjolras reappeared to her yesterday. That was what she was ashamed of. From the time of his birth, she should have told Andras about his father, for whom he was named. She should have told him what a great man Enjolras was; she should have told him how self-less he was; she should have told him how he had saved them all. If she had, maybe Andras would not be afraid of Enjolras now.

Yet, she had told him nothing. She told him nothing, because she was trying to protect her child. She was trying to keep him safe. She had failed. She had failed her son, and she had failed his father. She could not be angry with Andras. She could not blame him. She could blame only herself. Her heart was flooded with grief.

"Andras…" a single word fell through her lips a last. She forced back her pain, and said gently, "That is your father."

Andras did not understand. Éponine could see in his eyes that this word meant nothing to him. He had never heard it before.

"Did you meet a friend today?" Éponine said suddenly, as a new idea occurred to her. Andras looked up to meet her gaze. His head against her chest, he nodded. "What was her name?" Éponine did not know if she had been informed of—she could not remember—the names of Combeferre's daughters.

Andras made an admirable attempt to say, "Océane."

Éponine nodded. She forced a weak smile to appear on her lips, and she gently tightened her arm around her son, holding him closer to her. At the familiar warmth of his little body against her, a small bit of comfort came to her troubled heart. Her love for her son made her feel safer, stronger. "Océane's father is Combeferre," she said. She raised a hand to point at Combeferre, who was sitting silently on the other side of the room. He was still reading his book as if he did not hear the current conversation, but Éponine was certain he did. Nonetheless, she was grateful he pretended otherwise. She was already ashamed enough. She was even more ashamed now that Combeferre knew the truth, as well. She returned her hand to her side and softly brushed her fingers against Enjolras's forehead. "…and this is your father."

Small wrinkles appeared in the velvet skin of Andras's forehead as he frowned. He tried to understand. Very hard, he tried to understand. He still could not.

Éponine sighed. She thought for a moment, struggling to find a way to explain it to him. "Did you meet Océane's mama?" she said at last.

This was something that Andras did understand, so he nodded. He knew what a mother was, but not a father. Andras liked Élisabeth. She was nice to him. He felt safe when he was with her. She reminded him a lot of Cosette, who he loved and trusted. He trusted women much more easily than he trusted men. Éponine had taught him specifically not to trust men.

"All children have a mama and a father." She could see that Andras still did not understand, so she tried to explain, "A father is… he is like another mama but a boy instead of a girl." Perhaps, it was poor explanation, and she felt foolish saying it, but it was all she could think of.

Andras frowned again, utterly confused now. It did not make any sense. "A boy?" Éponine nodded, but Andras frowned and shook his head. "Then, why don't I have a boy-mama?"

"You do have a father," Éponine corrected him—the last thing she needed was for her son to go around tell people that he had a "boy-mama." Heaven knows what kind of rumors about this family would infiltrate the gossip of Paris then. "This is your father," she said, and again she gestured to that frightening man that Andras did not know.

Andras, who was still having trouble understanding this entire concept, which seemed a little bit impossible to him, could not bring himself to believe this. This man could not have been his… father, was it? Or if he really was his father, then a mama and a father were nothing alike at all. His mama had always been with him; for as long as he could remember, he knew and trusted her; she had always been there to take care of him, and protect him, and hug him; he loved her, and she loved him; he loved her with the fullness of his innocent and ignorant heart. But this man… This man was nothing like his mother at all. Andras did not know this person. This man had never been there. Andras did not trust him. He did not love him. He was afraid of him. And the child was quite certain that this man did not love him either.

Éponine could see that Andras's was thinking. His face took up that contemplative expression, and his eyes were wide and transfixed, the way most young children look when they are in deep thought. It was hard to guess what he was thinking, but Éponine knew he still could not quite understand. He still did not know what this man was supposed to be to him. He still did not trust him. He still did not love him.

At last, Andras looked up at his mother again and said something that was like a blow to Éponine's heart. "When is he going to go home?"

"Andras!" Éponine gasped, too appalled to hide her anger. Although, once again, she knew she had no right to be angry at him. This was her fault, not his. Trying to fight off her emotions and remain understanding, she said, "He is home. His home is with us. He is going to stay with us now."

The next thing Andras said broke her heart. Her anger was gone, and she could feel nothing but sadness, the pains of sorrow. "For how long?"

For a moment, Andras looked like he was about to cry. Éponine wanted to cry herself. She refused to let herself show such weakness, and especially in front of her son. She took a deep breath and said very clearly, her tone gentle but stern all the while, "Forever."

Andras's face crumpled, as if he was about to sob in sadness and in fear. Yet, he knew better than to argue with his mother. He merely shook his head again and buried his face against Éponine. He hugged her tighter.

Éponine stared down at her son, speechless. She did not know what to say… or what to do. At last, she did the only think she could think of. She swallowed everything, her pain, her sorrow, and her anger, and she hardened her heart. "Go to sleep, Andras," she said softly. She tenderly rubbed his back with one hand.

"I can't sleep, Mama," she barely heard his soft voice, muffled by her body, which he hid against, whisper.

"Why not?"

"I'm scared."

If there was a piece of glass left in her chest that had not yet been shattered, the remains of Éponine's heart shattered now. She did not ask why he was scared. She already knew. And it was something she could not bear to hear.

She closed her eyes… to ensure that tears could not come into them. She was silent a moment as she got a hold of herself. She gathered her courage and her strength. At last, she parted her lips and managed to say in a whisper, "There is no reason to be scared, Andras. Try to sleep."

Her voice was cold and empty like the dark hole—almost like the hole left by a bullet—in her chest where her hearted used to be.

…

The next several days were like a dream. They passed in a hazy entanglement of sleep and waking, dreams and reality, and Enjolras had trouble determining what was real and what was not. When these days at last came to an end, he had trouble remembering what had happened.

Combeferre increased Enjolras's dosages of medications as well as the morphine, and the result: the pain was easier to bear, but Enjolras spent much of the day asleep or in a drug-induced state of semi-consciousness and bewilderment. On top of it, was the delusions brought about by fever, and pain, and the horrors of his past.

Enjolras could remember only pieces of it, broken fragments of his life that could not be placed together in a sensible order, that could never be reconstructed. Combeferre and Joly were changing his bandages, cleaning his wounds, someone was forcing him to drink water, forcing him to drink medicine, forcing him to swallow a pill, forcing him to ingest food that he could not taste, he was vomiting into a metal pot, they were helping him change his wet shirt, two people—he did not glance at them to discover who—were helping him, almost carrying him, down the hall so he could use the bathroom, they were cleaning his wounds again, they were hurting him, he was lying on his back in bed and listening to someone groan in pain, he realized that he was the one moaning like a dying animal and tried to shut himself up, Éponine was holding his hand, she was looking down over him like a guardian angel, a sad look of longing and love in her beautiful eyes, and she was gently stroking his cheek with her fingers, he was unable to move so all he could do was stare up at her and yearn to hold her in his arms.

The first two days he was at Combeferre's, his unconsciousness was so deep that it was an oblivion, a void. It was nothingness, and it was peaceful. It was an escape for the world. An escape from the pain. Then, the dreams started. The nightmares.

They were usually about prison, about being tortured. Through terror and pain, Enjolras was forced to relive the horrors and the agony of the barricades, of the battles, or the deaths of his friends, of the bullet, of the hospital, of the prison, of the torching chamber, of the hell he had witnessed in life. He could even feel the pain in his sleep sometimes. Because it was real.

He had other dreams as well. Distorted and mangled visions that were too terrible to speak of, even to think about. In many of his delusions, he was in prison, and they were torturing him. They cut him up, they pulled out his teeth—all of them this time, they ripped out his tongue, like they had threatened, they stabbed out his eyes, cut off his ears, and nose, and fingers… they dismembered his body piece by piece, they cut open his chest and stomach and removed his organs, they set him on fire and laughed as he burned… all while he was still alive.

He was in a hospital. He was lying on his back, tied down to the table, staring up at a white ceiling, and waiting for them to begin the operation. He was unclothed, and his stark body was vulnerable and defenseless, at the mercy of these men whom he did not know. The doctors were cleaning their blades and preparing to begin. Enjolras closed his eyes. He was terrified, but he was trying to be brave. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes once more. What he saw made him scream. The doctors had changed. They were suddenly as madmen. Their faces were wild, and their eyes possessed. Their white aprons were covered in blood, dark crimson that dripped down their hands, and arms, and legs… the blades of their knives. Struggling, screaming, fighting to get away, but all in vain, Enjolras watched them cut him open and remove his lungs. They took everything that was left: the half of the one—perhaps they had come to finish the job they began four years ago—and then his entire left lung. They left his heart so he could see it flailing in his open chest, gasping and drowning in the blood it was trying to pump through his dissected body. He was still alive, but he could not breathe. His lungs were gone, and he was choking. The doctors—the demons—laughed at him as he bled. He should have already been dead, but for some reason that he could not understand, even when what must have been all of his blood was gone from his body, he would not die. So, they laughed at him as he suffocated. (While this was happening inside of Enjolras's head, his airways were, in reality, becoming clogged by mucus and blood, which was probably the inspiration for such a dream. He was breathing but with difficulty. When he jolted abruptly awake, Combeferre, Joly, and Éponine were all three around him, holding him in a sitting position while he coughed up the fluids impairing his lungs. Courfeyrac rushed forward a moment later with a bucket, just in case Enjolras was going to throw up.)

His nightmares got worse. Combeferre and Joly were cleaning his wounds one day, as they now did twice a day and every day. Éponine had left the room with Courfeyrac and Grantaire, because at this point Combeferre and Joly were simply asking everyone to wait outside while the changed Enjolras's bandages: it was the only way they could grant Enjolras's request that Éponine not see his wounds… not yet at least. All of this happened in Enjolras's dream as it did every day, but as he was lying on his stomach in bed, letting them tend to his wounded back, the pain became terrible (At this point, in the real world, Combeferre had uncovered Enjolras's back and was gently dabbing medication onto his wounds). Enjolras looked over his shoulder, and it was no longer Combeferre and Joly standing there. Joly was the guard and Combeferre was the general. These were the men who had tortured him. Enjolras saw the bloody whip in General Combeferre's hand, and he suddenly realized that this man was not helping him at all. He was beating him. He was torturing him.

This was a dream that seemed so real that Enjolras almost believed that it was. Even after he woke up—his mind was dulled by drugs at this time, which was part of the reason for this—almost a full hour went by before he could fully bring himself to trust Combeferre and Joly again.

He was trapped in his cell, or chained to a wall, or lying on the floor, bleeding and dying with a bullet in his chest, coughing up blood, unable to get up, and as he lied there, helpless and useless, he watched them torture Éponine. He watched them torture his son. He watched his family, his wife and his child, the two loves of his life, die.

His wrists and ankles were in chains, and he could not move. He was chained down to a stone table, just as he was in prison. Yet, this time, it was not his face on fire. The entire room was ablaze. It was a furnace. Inferno. The men all around him, standing over him, laughing at him, mocking him, striking him, hurting him, torturing him, were not men at all. They were demons. The fire did not burn them, but it devoured Enjolras. It ate the flesh off of his bloody and sucked the blood out of his veins, until he was nothing but blackened tissue, stringy fibers of mangled flesh, and bloody bones. Yet, he was still alive somehow. He could not escape the pain. Even death could not save him. Enjolras screamed, and cried, and wept like a child, but he could do nothing to escape the fire. At last, he opened his lips and whaled in excruciation, "Kill me! Just kill me! God, where are You!? Just let me die!" The devil laughed at him. A beast more hideous than Enjolras's own disgusting face appeared over him, and Satan said to him, "Your God cannot help you now. It is too late for that. Do you not know that you are already dead?"

They did not count how many times Enjolras awoke from sleep shouting, crying out, shaking, sweating, trembling uncontrollably, flinching at every sound he heard and every motion that he saw, terrified, confused, oblivious to the world around him, almost… out of his mind... Sometimes it took almost five minutes to calm him down and convince him that he was only dreaming, that he was at Combeferre's house, that his friends were with him, that he was safe, that it was not real, that it was only a dream… Even then, sometimes he remained skeptical for a long time after this.

In these periods, Enjolras seemed to trust only one person: Éponine. She was the only one who could touch him without making him flinch. She stayed with him through everything, holding his hand, gently rubbing his arm or stroking his forehead, from time to time placing a soft kiss on his cheek. Éponine was the one who got him through it. If she had not been with him, Enjolras—all of them—did not know what would have happened. They did not think he would have made it.

After three days of this, they could bear it no longer. Enjolras could not bear it, and his friends could not either. Combeferre lowered Enjolras's drug doses again, and he was able to stay awake for most of the day. His mind was clearer, and his senses sharper. He was less vulnerable and less… psychotic. He had to spend more time in more pain, but he did not care. That was less time he had to spend in the hell he visited each time he closed his eyes to go to sleep.

For the entire week and a bit longer following his appearance at his friend's doorstep, his return form the dead, Enjolras remained at Combeferre's house and under his ceaseless care. Combeferre kept him on morphine. Enjolras swallowed a large pill when he awoke in the morning, a higher dose in the afternoon, and another pill at night before he went to sleep. Before long, Enjolras found himself craving each dose, needing the drug in his veins just to make it through the hours, just to endure the pain, sighing in relief each time Combeferre said it was time for another pill. This drug along with three medications, two oral and one ointment, kept the pain tolerable enough for Enjolras survive each day.

The real medicine, however, the real pain reliever, was his family. Éponine by his side, holding his hand, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly… and even Grantaire near by, and his son just a few rooms away. That is what he needed. That is how he got through the pain. That is how he survived.

Even still, fate is cruel. The Lord is strange. Who can understand His works, His plans? Not the ignorant and naïve mind of a mortal.

Regrettably, tragically, it must be reported that this—this week at Combeferre's house, that day when they tortured him, the proceeding four years in prison, even the devastation at the barricades, the surgery at the hospital, and the bullet—was not the worst pain that this man would be forced to endure in his lifetime. The worst pain to befall Enjolras, the excruciation, the agony, the torture, the unbearable suffering and anguish, the pain too great to get through, to survive, was yet to come.